


With This Ring

by orithea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Demisexuality, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mycroft's Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft’s hand feels naked without his ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With This Ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> For Jude, who prompted me with "Mycroft's hand felt naked without his ring". Jude is the giver of brilliant prompts.

Mycroft’s hand feels naked without his ring.

It would, of course. He’s been wearing it for nearly twenty years now. Twenty-two months on his left hand, eighteen years on the right—its proper place as a memorial, as a daily reminder: all lives end, all hearts are broken. Even his, strong as steel as he may have thought it to be. Lucky to have learned that at an early enough age before he let sentiment get in the way of his career. It probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer than those near to two years if things hadn’t ended as they did—relationships do tend to falter when one party is entirely devoted to turning their minor position in the British government into something altogether more influential.

And now it seems he’s mad enough to try it again.

That first time, well, that had been something of a surprise. Mycroft made it to the age of twenty-one without any interest in relationships. Barely any interest in friendships, though he did pretend rather well. He’d engaged in sexual activities, of course. Boarding schools—single sex boarding schools, especially—were rife with sexual politics, and Mycroft was nothing if not adept at politics, even as a teenager. He did what was necessary to fit in, because the illusion of social normalcy was important—a lesson that he never quite managed to impress upon his brother. His relationship with Elizabeth is something of a surprise. They begin as classmates, then colleagues. Mycroft has a grudging respect for the necessity of her work; she is dismissive of his until it is Mycroft’s influence that saves her and pulls her from a tricky situation. They become something like friends after that, and there is a standing appointment for weekly dinners—Thursday nights at 7:00. Her favorite restaurant because Mycroft is nothing if not polite and accommodating.

Elizabeth kisses him one night after dinner, and Mycroft is surprised to find that he kisses back—not out of politeness, not to be accommodating, but because he _wants_ to. Because he respects her, trusts her, considers her something of an equal, which is not a status that has been bestowed on anyone outside of his immediate family in the past.

They are married three months later. Mycroft does not tell his family, nor does she. Their line of work does inspire a certain amount of secrecy about their private lives, though their one concession is the rings. Plain gold bands, worn on the third finger of the left hand. Traditional. Nondescript. Acceptable. They agree to share the news over Christmas—Elizabeth will come to the Holmes estate after visiting her own parents on Christmas day.

But Sherlock knows the moment that Mycroft walks into the library. Which means, of course, that Mummy will know the second that she sees him as well. It’s impossible to have secrets in the Holmes family, not that Mycroft really thought he’d manage to keep it quiet for very long—he is wearing the ring, after all. He had hoped for more than fifteen seconds, at least, but Sherlock _is_ especially perceptive when bored.

“Mmm, Mummy won’t be happy about this.” Sherlock had been stretched languorously over the sofa—leather, antique, very susceptible to marks made by careless teenage feet in stiffly heeled oxford shoes pressed into it—when Mycroft had entered the room. He is sitting up now, fingers steepled in front of his face, and his eyes are positively gleaming. Sherlock always has taken delight in Mycroft getting into trouble.

“I highly doubt that my happiness would upset her.” Mycroft sneers and settles into an armchair across from the sofa. He picks up the book that sits on the side table, and scoffs when he sees the title. Machiavelli, _Il Principe_ , obviously planted there by Sherlock to aid in some snide commentary before he knew that Mycroft would hand him all the means to torment him served up on a silver platter. Or a golden ring, as the case may be.

“Her eldest son was married without consulting her opinion on his wife’s suitability, without inviting her to the wedding, and without holding it at the family estate, and you expect her to be simply pleased that you’re _happy_?” Sherlock says the word as though it’s distasteful, as though he can’t believe that Mycroft would deign to find his satisfaction in the form of another person. “You smell of her perfume. I’m honestly disappointed that you weren’t more careful.”

Mycroft frowns. Truthfully, he hadn’t considered the fact that their scents would mingle now that they lived together. His own nose was compromised by having enveloped the smell into a new sense of normalcy. “It would have come out anyway,” Mycroft covers his gaffe. “No sense delaying the inevitable with deception.”

“What’s her name?”

Mycroft hesitates. Considers lying. Decides Sherlock would find out eventually if he did. “Elizabeth.”

Sherlock perks up further, and the gleam in his eye takes on a malicious glint. “Do you ever slip up and call her Her Highness? Your Majesty? I knew you had an absurd devotion to queen and country, but that does take it a bit far, don’t you think?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Mycroft says icily.

“Sherlock, can’t you let your brother alone for a single moment?” Mrs. Holmes asks as she breezes into the room. She’s distracted, probably machinating to control the delicate balance of Holmesian tempers with the proper seating arrangements for Christmas dinner, but her eyes snap to Mycroft with a sudden intensity. Sherlock has her eyes (Mycroft has their father’s) and Mummy is the originator of the patented Holmes freezing stare. Shouldn’t still work on him, not now that he’s perfected it himself, but it does.

“Hello, Mother,” Mycroft greets her, rising to his feet.

“What have you done, Mycroft?” The question is unnecessary. She knows.

“I should think it obvious,” Mycroft answers her with as much cheek as he dares. “You hardly need to ask.”

“Yes, well, that’s not the point, is it?” Her face settles into a tight smile as she looks him over. “Is she from a good family?”

“I hardly know. I didn’t care to ask.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Mrs. Holmes snaps. It is so rare of her to be short with him that Mycroft actually recoils as though he’s been slapped by her words. Even Sherlock, quietly watching, makes a small noise of surprise. “Because you’re far too young and inexperienced to consider important matters like that,” she continues through his obvious discomfort. “How long did the two of you even know each other before you decided to marry her and give some woman you hardly know the first thing about access to all of your assets? Are you even certain that’s not why she decided to marry you in the first place?”

Mycroft musters all of the quiet control that he is capable of. “You will _not_ speak of my wife that way.

“I will say what I please. This is my home, and you are my son.”

“Then I’ll not be staying,” Mycroft informs her with more calm assurance in his voice than he feels.

True to his word, Mycroft leaves before the celebrations starts, avoiding the rest of his family, and returns to London. Elizabeth comes to their flat after a night with her parents—who were disappointed at their exclusion, but far more accepting than Mrs. Holmes—and they have a quiet holiday together. Mycroft reveals that he makes a decent Christmas pudding, and Elizabeth takes joy in setting it aflame when they’ve sat down to dinner. They narrowly avoid setting the kitchen on fire, but something about the whole situation is fun, is relaxing, and Mycroft realizes that it’s the most contented he can recall having been in his entire life.

When Elizabeth is killed in an operation gone wrong, it only strengthens Mycroft’s distaste in legwork. That is certainly not the only result of the situation, but it is the only one that he allows to show. That, and moving the wedding band to his right hand. Mycroft takes great care of it—regular cleanings, occasional resizing when his self-control lapses and it becomes a necessity. The heavy feeling in his chest, the way that his life suddenly feels colorless and empty even though he hadn’t quite realized how full it was before, those are the things that he keeps hidden.

Sherlock stores the information about Mycroft’s “little slip up”—which is how he chooses to think of it, because of course _Sherlock_ can’t understand the matter—in his arsenal to use when he’s feeling particularly vindictive. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t understand that some things are—should be—off-limits. It is a surefire way to win an argument between them. Sherlock will flick his eyes downwards, let them linger on Mycroft’s ring, then fire off a reference only the two of them will understand.

“This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

“I upset her?” Sherlock makes a pointed glance, so swift that no one else would even notice. “Me? It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft!”

And Mycroft will quietly seethe, because it is true that their relationship never quite recovered, even after he became a widower and presumably fell back under Mummy’s control once more.

\---

Mycroft knows Gregory Lestrade for nearly five years before the other man asks him about his ring.

It comes on the heels of Mycroft’s own observations about Greg’s ring, or his lack thereof, to be more precise. Its absence is conspicuous in the wake of Greg’s return from vacation—tan line clearly visible, ring therefore removed within the last days of the vacation or in the twenty-four hours since he returned home. Mycroft acknowledges it in an attempt to be a supportive friend, because for some reason that he can’t quite place his finger upon, he values this little acquaintance that has sprung up between them. It’s built on a far narrower and tremulous foundation than any of Mycroft’s other personal relationships, but this one actually makes Mycroft happy, contented, strangely enough. Greg surprises him. He is interesting, and Mycroft enjoys his company. He finds himself letting Greg know things that he doesn’t confide in others.

They’ve met for dinner, as they do irregularly, on Mycroft’s terms. Mycroft feels it’s only fair to repay the man for his patience with Sherlock by treating him to the odd meal in a restaurant he wouldn’t typically frequent. Not often enough to be a habit, just something of an indulgence. Mycroft can’t deny that he enjoys the other man’s company.

“Yeah, well. Things didn’t work out quite like I’d hoped.” Greg deflects quickly. “What about you? I’ve always wondered about that ring you wear. Is it a family ring?”

“No. I was married, once,” Mycroft answers him.

Greg splutters on a sip of his drink.

“What?” Mycroft says with the barest hint of a smile. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m hardly my brother, am I?”

“No, God no. I’d be far more gobsmacked if he told me he’d ever been married, because who could be quite _that_ mad? But you’re not far off. In a different way.”

“Many thanks,” Mycroft says silkily.

“You know what I mean,” Greg says, flushing.

Mycroft finds the way that Greg lets these things slip out then tries to smooth them out afterwards endearing. So very different than what he’s used to. “Yes, I do know what you mean,” he concedes.

“So what happened?” Greg asks. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft is surprised to find himself saying. Because it’s really not a story that anyone, outside of the few colleagues from his early days who remain employed by the government, has been privy to in a very long time. “We were in the same course at Cambridge. Recruited into the same … agency,” Mycroft pauses and gives the word enough weight for Greg to understand its implications. They don’t discuss what Mycroft does, but Greg has an inkling. Mostly borne from Mycroft’s uncanny ability to know anything and everything about Greg at any given moment. “Though she worked in a more …” he searches for a more delicate way to say explosive, “physical sort of capacity. Very hands-on.”

“You’re more the hands-off sort,” Greg says knowingly.

“I have many fingers in many pies, but they’re entirely metaphorical, I assure you,” Mycroft agrees. “Anyway, we knew each other for some time, became friends, then decided to get married. It was all a bit quick and I was—” there is the barest perceptible hitch in Mycroft’s voice, “—I was very much smitten, to tell the truth. We were young. Sherlock was still a teenager then, if you can imagine what a terror he was about the whole thing. And it lasted for just short of two years.”

“She died,” Greg says gently, understanding.

Mycroft nods. “Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Part of the job, unfortunately.”

“Jesus,” Greg whispers under his breath. He grimaces and rubs his hand over his chin. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“You understand how it is. Your line of work has similar dangers.”

“Yeah, I’ve … been really lucky, honestly. Hurt sometimes, but nothing serious.”

Mycroft nods and they go quiet for several long moments, turning back to their mostly neglected dinners.

“Listen, Gregory, I was wondering,” Mycroft breaks their silence, somewhat hesitantly.

Greg takes advantage of Mycroft’s pause to correct him, “Just Greg, please. You don’t have to be formal all the time.” He smirks and Mycroft knows that someday he’ll have to surprise him and show him just how informal he can be when he sets himself to it.

“Of course. Greg. I was wondering if you’d like to make our meetings a regular occurrence. Not strictly business, of course, but more of a … social arrangement?”

“As friends?” Greg asks, brow raised.

“Yes, naturally.”

Greg laughs at that and Mycroft gives him a questioning look. “Nothing,” Greg says. “Just—just if you’d told me five years ago, hell, five weeks ago, even, that one of the Holmes brothers considered me a friend, I might have called you a liar. Actually, no ‘might’ about it, I would have, definitely.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft spreads his hands demurely. “We Holmeses do play our cards close to our chest, I suppose.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Is there any particular date or time that would suit you best?”

“Nature of the work being what it is, it can be a little difficult to set anything in stone. Never know when you’ll turn up a murder, you know?” Greg pauses, sucks his teeth in contemplation. “How’s Thurs—”

“No,” Mycroft says abruptly, cutting him short. Greg looks surprised and Mycroft clears his throat. “Sorry. Thursday is just the least convenient day for me. Friday? Fewer murders leading into the start of the weekend?”

“Doesn’t always work that way, but sure.” Greg says, easy grin back on his face. “Yeah, I’ll look forward to that.”

“Very well. I’ll text you to work out the details.” Typically they speak with each other over the line in Greg’s office, but Mycroft is very understanding of the fact that Greg has embraced texting with more enthusiasm than Mycroft himself.

“Oh, I changed my mobile number recently—” Greg says, but he pauses at the enigmatic smile on Mycroft’s face. “Nevermind. You’ll find a way to get in touch, yeah?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft assures him. “Easily.”

“I’ll try not to let that worry me.”

\---

It takes months of dinners with Greg before Mycroft realizes that they’re what he looks forwards to the most each week, After that first important one, the realizations about the situation come tumbling out much more quickly: that he enjoys them because they are the one time when he is genuinely relaxed, comfortable, himself; that Greg enjoys them too and is not merely indulging him; that for the first time in many years Mycroft has a friend, an actual friend and not an acquaintance; that there might just be some other feeling behind it all as well.

The last thought is the one that inspires him to finally remove his ring. It feels strange in the first few moments after he slips it from his finger. Bereft. Barren. Exposed. The feeling changes as he becomes used to the sensation. He comes to think of it as being free, of lifting a weight that he’s carried for most of his life. Just as being with the ring was an important reminder, being without is another. Caring is not an advantage, ultimately, but it is not merely a dangerous distraction, either. If it were, he would have ended these meetings a long time ago.

Greg notices immediately at their next meeting. He’s far more perceptive than Sherlock gives him credit for, and quite good at his job when he doesn’t have a Holmes interfering. “You’re not wearing your ring anymore,” Greg says casually. He did notice straight away, but waits politely, until they’ve finished dinner and are lingering over drinks, to bring it up.

If it were anyone else—Sherlock, possibly even John—Mycroft would have had a sharp response. For Greg he has only the truth. “No. I thought that it was time to … let go.”

Greg nods. “I know how hard that can be.” His divorce is final, Mycroft knows, and he’s actually seemed much more relaxed since making the decision to split for good. “Any particular reason why now?”

“Personal epiphany. I came to realize that I wore it for the wrong reasons. That I was wrong.”

“You were wrong?” Greg says with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t get too used to hearing it, but it does happen.” Mycroft is certain that there’s no one else in the world who would tease him like this, almost affectionately. How did that come to pass? “What I mean is that it had become a symbol of something, and the meaning is no longer applicable to my circumstances.”

Greg snorts. “I think I understand your convoluted, Mycroftian, not actually saying anything that makes sense, meaning with that sentence. God help me for it.”

“And that is just one of the many reasons that I find you so interesting, Greg.” In any other conversation Mycroft might have made the statement offhandedly. As an experiment, he finds the words taking a flirtatious bent, and he lets his eyes linger on the curve of Greg’s lips just longer than strictly proper between friends. When they flick back up he’s pleased to note that Greg has followed his intention and looks nothing short of stunned, before a blush creeps over his cheeks.

“Did you just—” Greg lets his words hang.

“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “Something for you to consider.”

“That you’re finally over your dead wife?” Greg asks incredulously.

Well, one can’t expect perfect understanding at all times, when one is Mycroft Holmes. “No, I have not been grieving all this time, I assure you. The situation is that I’ve realized, somewhat belatedly, that I care, and that it is fine to do so. And that I’m interested, which is …” He spreads his hands and gestures to indicate that on that point, he’s leaving things up to Greg.

“That’s—you—.”

“Yes, quite.” Mycroft deadpans. “I’m ready to leave, are you?”

Greg takes an appraising look at the last inch of scotch in his glass before draining it. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

Mycroft doesn’t have to worry about anything as mundane as settling bills, not here where they know him so well. He strides out, coolly collected, with a much more flustered Greg at his heels. His car is waiting for him around the corner and Greg follows him to it. Before getting into the car, Mycroft pulls Greg close and gives him a kiss, just a soft brush of lips while his thumb traces a line down Greg’s neck. “Think about that, will you?” he asks after he pulls away from Greg’s mouth.

Greg nods, still looking dazed, and watches him go.


End file.
